N.B.Dravenlord
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[BETA-READ / Side Project] RoU | B1 | Chapter 7
🕑 Added 2026-02-09 05:01:04 +0000 UTC(Be advised that this book contains a dark setting, strong romance, and explicit scenes. I do not recommend it for anyone under 18.)
Rise of the Unbound / Book 1: The Blade and The Pawn
Cover / synopsis: https://www.patreon.com/posts/141212971
Prologue - > https://www.patreon.com/posts/141378684
IMPORTANT:
Sorry for the back and forth. The fiction is back in third-person POV, like Ascension of the Primalist. I just enjoyed experimenting with different POVs a bit too much (you’ll see why here).
I changed back the previous chapters in Third-person POV too.
I guess the Beta-read tag was for this particular reason ... T_T
Chapter 7: The Pawn
Seven followed Corporal Thorne through the churning dust of the caravan station. His cloak's hood barely muffled the cacophony of shouts, grinding wheels, and grunts of Valk-Striders around them.
In the center of the chaos, the Baron scribbled notes next to the lead wagon. Nearby workers gave him a wide berth, their eyes darting toward him with a mixture of reverence and palpable fear.
But Seven barely looked at the noble.
His gaze was instead drawn to the three heavy-duty wagons on the left, where injured men and women were being loaded.
Soldiers, mercenaries, all heavily bandaged, the linen on their limbs and head stained dark red. Some were missing arms; others were being carried on stretchers, their legs gone.
Thorne’s voice cut through the noise from Seven's left. “Be respectful. If you show him an ounce of insolence, I will break all the bones in your body. One by one.”
Seven ignored the threat and kept a blank face as they stopped a few paces from the nobleman.
Baron Valdos closed the ledger with a snap and handed it to the scribe, dismissing him with a wave. He turned to Seven, a faint, polite smile on his lips.
“Leaving Seraklieus for the first time,” he said. “It must provide a certain... thrill. To finally see the world beyond the smog of the slums and this city.”
He paused, waiting. Seven remained silent, studying his pristine coat. It contrasted sharply with the bloodied soldier behind.
“Aren’t you curious where we are going?” the Baron pressed. “Why are there so many armed men here? It looks as if we just returned from a war, doesn’t it?”
Seven met the man’s eyes. “I don’t ask questions that don't concern my contracts.”
The Baron let out a low chuckle. “A man of focus. I appreciate that.” He then nodded. “But it does concern your first one.”
An instant later, the noble turned to look at the wagons of the wounded. “For reasons that you do not need to know, I have entered into a... complex alliance with a man. An important General of the Vermilion Army. But trust is a fragile thing in politics. To make sure he doesn’t think about going back on his word, I made sure to acquire leverage.”
Seven's eyes narrowed. “You captured someone he cares about.”
“Exactly.” The noble gestured vaguely toward a cluster of reinforced tents near the perimeter. “His daughter, Lady Aurelia Garrant.”
It instantly all became clear. The noble hadn't purchased the Iron Claws’ contract for Seven to kill—but to be the blade at her throat that ensured her father’s loyalty.
“Why me?” Seven asked. “You have plenty of men who could do it.”
“Because I need to hide her in plain sight,” the Baron answered. “She must continue to live a normal life, to maintain the facade that everything is fine. That means attending the Academy of Tharcelon.”
Seven blinked, a mutter slipping out, “An academy?”
“Yes, an elite institution that accepts only the most promising weavers of the nation,” the Baron explained, almost as if reading a selling speech. “The foundry where the future officers of the army are forged. Places like those only accept young Weavers who have just awakened.”
Seven stopped himself from grimacing. “You want to send an assassin from the slums into a place filled with silver-spoon nobles.”
“I’m sure you will be able to show restraint.” The Baron smiled, clearly giving not much weight to the remark. “The director there owes me a favor. He will tell the instructors that you are her personal guard. I’ve had you placed on the register as a commoner sponsorship. Some of those admitted have no formal education, so your... lack of refinement should be overlooked. You will still have to show a bit more manners.”
Seven looked back at the crippled soldiers. The man had spent a fortune in blood and coin to capture this girl. This is a high-stakes game.
“So you want me to stay at striking range at all times. To take her out... or at least make it clear I could do it.”
“No,” the Baron answered with a shake of his head. “You cannot threaten her physically. She could scorch you alive before you got within ten paces. She is an extremely talented Pyromancer.”
Seven paused. If he couldn't kill her with a blade, then what was the point? Then, the pieces clicked into place—why the man had confirmed the affinity of the beast in his chest to be sure he'd awaken as a Soulwarden.
“An enchanted contract.”
“Precisely,” the Baron answered, looking pleased. “We forced her to sign a death contract, crafted by a powerful Soulwarden by threatening to kill people she cares about. Everything is already prepared. You simply need to be the anchor. The range of such a strong curse is not as extensive as the predatory contract you are bound by. It requires proximity. That is why you must join the academy. It’s a delicate assignment that will need some fitness on your part.”
“Her father will send people to assassinate me,” Seven stated flatly. “If I’m the trigger, I’m the target.”
“We made a second contract to persuade the general not to do so,” the Baron replied, unbothered. “We could kill her in revenge if ever we were to get in range. But desperation makes men foolish. He might still risk it. You will need to be ready.”
Seven ran the scenario in his head. Guarding a noble brat who could burn him to ash, in a school full of people who would look down on him, while dodging assassins sent by a general. That sounded… annoying.
“If she tries to escape, I'll try to prevent it without killing her… to avoid losing your leverage. But what if I have no choice?”
The Baron’s expression hardened. “I prefer you to kill her than let her escape. My reputation would suffer far more from a lost hostage than a dead one.”
A long silence stretched between them. “She has been in Seraklieus for the past few days,” he added, breaking the tension, “kept in our custody while I finalized a few purchases. She will travel back to Tharcelon with us. You should meet her. You will be spending a great deal of time together... it might be good to get used to her personality.”
Great, Seven thought. She’s probably arrogant on top of that.
“The less the merrier,” he then muttered.
The air around them instantly dropped ten degrees. The Baron’s face turned frigid, the polite mask slipping to reveal the tyrant beneath. He didn't speak, but his eyes bore into Seven's with a crushing weight. That look promised pain far worse than what he had inflicted on him earlier.
‘No’ was clearly not an option.
Seven clenched his jaw, took a deep breath, and looked away. “Where is she?”
“In the last of the commanding tents,” the Baron answered as he pointed to the largest structures in the center of the camp. His voice had returned to its smooth timbre. “You can’t miss them.”
Without a word, Seven turned and headed toward the massive canvas against his will. His hand instinctively brushed the hilt of his new dark dagger.
Should I play the brute? Or the silent servant?
The latter could certainly work against him. It would give her room to breathe, room to believe she still held the lead.
No.
He needed to crush her ego right away.
She had to understand her place so she would always comply. She needed to realize—by violence, if necessary—that despite her lineage, wealth, and background, she didn't decide whether she'd take her next breath or not.
He was.
This was the only way to make the upcoming months bearable—or however long the Baron intended to keep her hostage. Before finally ordering him to slit her throat.
******
The tent was ridiculous. Too much fabric and too much care for something meant to be temporary. The air smelled like clean wax and expensive paper, a world away from the gutter-filth and cheap gin Seven was used to.
The Baron had called this a ‘delicate assignment.’ Yet Seven only saw it as another mission, another cage he was forced into.
And there she was. The General’s daughter, Lady Aurelia.
She stood with her back turned to him, staring at a map big enough to serve as a blanket for a family of five. Everything about her screamed money, from the deep crimson dye of her dress to the intricate braid of her golden hair. Most men of the Iron Claws would have loved the sight.
Yet to Seven, she was just a job. A porcelain doll he might have to break.
He leaned against the central tent pole of rough wood and waited. Even if he hated it, he was good at waiting. Patience had always been a currency he could afford.
Finally, Aurelia turned. No gasp of surprise. Her eyes—a startling, sharp blue—swept over him, taking in his leather armor, the scar in his face, the knife at his belt. There was no fear in her gaze, just a cold and aristocratic appraisal. She’d probably seen prettier dogs.
“So,” she said. Her voice was exactly what Seven had expected: crisp, clean, and dripping with privilege. “You’re the one.”
He gave a slight, lazy bow that was more an insult than a gesture of respect. “Depends on who I’m supposed to be.”
“Don’t play games,” she retorted, taking a step toward him. A scent of lavender and soap wafted from her. A smell so clean it felt like an accusation to Seven's own hygiene. “The Baron sent you. You’re the shadow he wants to keep on my heel. His executioner on a leash.”
A leash. The word struck a nerve in him. She wasn't wrong. Valdos had bought his debt, bought his life. The chains were invisible, but they were there, choking him.
Seven's jaws tightened.
“The one who decides whether I live or I die,” she added with a glare.
Seven pushed himself off the pole. “I’m just the blade,” he answered flatly, betraying none of the anger coiling in his gut. “It's the Baron who decides where I fall. My feelings on the matter are... irrelevant. So, for your own sake, it’d be best for you to obey and do as told… just like your father.”
A flicker of something—surprise? disappointment?—crossed Aurelia’s features before it was gone. She lifted her chin. “A blade that doesn’t get a say, is that it? How convenient. Is that what you tell yourself to sleep at night?”
Her gaze hardened. “Well, I’m not like you. I’m flesh and blood. Not some piece of steel. So, no, I won’t obey like some vulgar dog.”
Seven stopped himself from laughing. Her idea of disobedience was probably arguing with her handmaiden. She knew nothing of real defiance, of the choice between obeying someone like Kaiser or getting tortured.
The next instant, he closed the distance between them, enjoying the small, almost imperceptible way she stiffened as he entered her space. She smelled rich—like everything he hated, and everything he’d ever wanted.
“You will have to learn then,” he said, meeting her eyes. It was the truest thing he could say. It was the story of his entire damn life as a Hound. He’d learned. Now it was her turn.
Her breath hitched, but she didn't back away. She held her composure, as if daring him to break it. “And who will teach me?” she answered. “You? With a knife? You make a poor tutor.”
Seven leaned in, his mouth stopping just inches from her ear. “A blade doesn’t teach,” he whispered with coldness. One meant to cut. To remind her what he was. “Its only purpose is to finish the lesson.”
He saw a shiver trace its way down her neck, and a sick part of him was pleased.
But then the feeling rooted him in place.
Her posture, her scent, the fire in her eyes—everything about her was provoking him. Deep down, he fancied the idea of shattering the walls of gold and silk around her. To show her how blind to the world she was.
To make her realize how despicable life was outside her ivory tower.
But that'd be stupid. And pointless.
He straightened and stepped back to put some safe air between them. She was just another name. A name the Baron expected him to strike out if he gave the order.
Without another word, Seven turned and slipped out of the tent, leaving Aurelia alone in the golden lamplight.
She might still see herself as the queen on this chessboard. But from where he stood, she was just another pawn.
And another gilded bar on his new cage.
******
Aurelia stood frozen, her heart hammering against her ribs. The tent flap fell shut, plunging the place into an oppressive silence, and she finally released the breath she hadn't realized she’d been holding.
That man… he wasn't the brute she had expected. Brutes were simple; their dead eyes and scarred faces could be frightening, but they were also easy to read. Which wasn't his case.
He was different. And definitely far worse to deal with. Or escape from.
There was a coiled anger in his calmness, a bitter intelligence in his flat gaze. He was a weapon, yes, but a weapon that thought, felt, and clearly resented the hand that held it.
Her insult had been wrong. He wasn't some lapdog that sought to please his master.
He was a wolf chained to a post that hated the chain, the post, and those who lived in the castle behind. Or anyone foolish enough to walk too close.
He had looked at her as a vulgar tool to be used.
Aurelia's hand instinctively rose to her throat; the place this man's blade might one day rest. Then her fingers drifted down to her chest and halted. The spot his dark eyes had touched still felt cold. Or perhaps, hot. She… wasn't entirely sure.
______
Next --> Chapter 8: https://www.patreon.com/posts/150874076
